


Or swifter fire consume

by e_p_hart



Category: De Røde Sko | The Red Shoes - Hans Christian Andersen, Den lille Havfrue | The Little Mermaid - Hans Christian Andersen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Ballet, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, Victorian England
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 18:58:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1910061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_p_hart/pseuds/e_p_hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows when the dancers arrived, because the guests all at once constellate towards the front door. Emmy does not. She waits, observing an octet setting up in the far corner. So there would be dancing; Lady Jones really was a bubble: hadn’t the poor dancers enough dancing for one day?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Or swifter fire consume

The carriage pulls up, belching ribbons of steam. Emmy pushes away from the window and wheels into Ruby’s room, where they are still piling on necklaces and perfumes and rouges.

“The carriage is here,” she says. 

“Yes, thank you, Emmy,” Amber says impatiently. “Go and tell Papa, will you? He’ll want to see us off.” 

“Emmy, can I please borrow your blue fan? It’ll go so well with my dress. Thanks, dear, you’re a doll.” 

Emmy sets her lips and rolls into the elevator and downstairs. Her papa is in his study, going over accounts. He pecks her absently on the cheek when she comes in, and says, “Will you help me? I think I made a mistake, because the ledger simply won’t balance...” 

“Papa,” Emmy says. She tries again, louder. “Papa.” He looks up finally. “The carriage has arrived. Amber and Ruby want you to see them off.” 

“Hm,” he says. “All right, then.” He takes his spectacles off and follows Emmy out into the hallway. 

“Close your eyes!” Amber demands from around the corner in the upstairs hallway. “We won’t come down until they’re closed!” 

“They’re shut!” Papa calls. 

Rustlings and giggles, and then Ruby announces, “All right, then. Ta-da!” Ruby and Amber have arranged themselves into a tableau on the stairs, posing like mannequins; and rather grotesquely, to Emmy. 

“Why, these angels cannot be my daughters,” says Papa, to their delight. “You had better not let the Queen see you, or else she is sure to deport you!” 

“Why should she do that, Papa?” Amber asks, hands on her hips. 

“For inciting a riot.” 

They scream with laughter, and kiss him and Emmy, and flock out the door and into the carriage, which pulls away with a harsh metallic grumble. Emmy helps Papa find his mistake-- with one look-- and then retreats to her ground-floor bedroom. She heaves herself up onto her bed, and stares almost angrily at the poster she has tacked up on the far wall: ballerinas and a lead danseur, and script that announces a performance that very month. She has not, as yet, been able to dredge up the courage to ask her papa if they might attend, for she knows he will deny her. Thoughts of their mother, and his wife, still linger very strongly in all their memories, and it was only because of the high status of their host that Emmy’s sisters had been allowed to attend their party tonight at all. 

Emmy sets her alarm for an hour past midnight, when her sisters have promised to return, sighs, and closes her eyes to sleep for a while. 

* 

“Oh, Emmy, the ball was fabulous!” Ruby squeals, quieting when Emmy hushes her. “It was so beautiful!” 

“I danced with Sir Watt,” Amber says, taking off her earrings by the mirror. “Twice.” 

“You will start a scandal for sure! Of course, you could do worse.” 

“And you danced with Sir Barlow, if my memory serves, and he brought you a glass of punch.” They clasp hands and giggle. 

“It sounds like you both had a wonderful time,” Emmy says softly. 

“Oh, we did, we did. Here’s your fan back; thanks.” Ruby hands her the fan. 

“And what of your evening, Emmy? What did you end up doing?” Amber asks. 

“I fell asleep. I grew tired of waiting for you.” But they aren’t listening. “I was thinking,” she continues, “that since Papa has permitted you to attend parties, you might help me convince him...” 

“Convince him what?” Amber turns to her sharply. 

“I...” Emmy looks at the floor. “I had hoped to attend the performance of a ballet-troupe that I adore.” 

“Oh, Emmy!” Ruby cries, taking her sister into her arms. “Of course Papa will be sure to let you go. I have been thinking it is time for us all to appear in society again. It has, after all, been two years since Mother’s death; and even Papa cannot insist we mourn forever. Just leave it to us.” 

“You should have told us sooner,” Amber says, loosing her hair around her shoulders. “We could have gotten you into the party tonight.” 

“What!” Emmy says. 

“Oh, yes,” Ruby says, half-way scandalized; “we didn’t tell Papa, but it was actually a masque!” She giggles nervously. “No one would have recognized you; and since your introduction is only in a month, no one would have cared anyway--” 

“Except for Papa,” Amber adds with a sigh. “He is so old-fashioned about these things sometimes. But, honestly, Em; you talk to us every single day, and yet it has taken you this long to confide in us. Be sure to take more initiative in the future.” 

Ruby rolls her eyes behind Amber’s back. “In any case,” she says, “just leave it all to us.” 

True to their word, they bring up the ballet next morning at breakfast. 

“...and he told us that everyone who was anyone would be there, Papa,” Ruby says. “It is sure to be the performance of the century! We cannot miss this opportunity.” 

“We still have our box, Papa,” Amber intones. “It is a shame not to use it.” 

“And you haven’t been out in ages. Please, Papa. Please.” 

Papa looks up from his newspaper, egg dripping from his toast, and gave them an exasperated look. “Children, I am so busy these days.” 

“Oh, Papa. Please.” 

“I am sure,” Emmy adds quietly, “that the stocks will do quite well on their own for an evening.” 

“You, too?” He sets down his paper and toast and wags a finger at them all. “You leave me no choice, my daughters. We shall go to the ballet.” Ruby claps her hands while Amber smiles beatifically; Papa turns to Emmy. “And you? Aren’t you happy?” 

“I am happy, Papa,” Emmy says, hands twisting beneath the table. “Thank you.” 

“And I suppose,” he continues, “that since this will be our first appearance as a family since...in a while, you will all be wanting new dresses?” 

“And you need a new suit, of course,” Amber says. 

Papa sighs. “And I a new suit.” 

Shopping is always torture. Emmy forces herself to smile. “What an event,” she says. “I can hardly wait.” 

* 

There is a buzz of excitement in the theatre that is palpable, speech turning into a wordless tide from which nothing and no one can escape. Emmy is no exception, and she grips the edge of the box until her fingers turn white. Papa has his nose stuck in some scientific journal, while Ruby and Amber are off socializing somewhere; Emmy, confined to the box, contents herself with watching: people meeting, spotting, kissing one another; a small dog escapes its owner and barks madly; the orchestra trickling morosely into the pit; the electric operators, far above, checking the lights a final time before the show begins. Everywhere there is a flutter of fans and tinkle of crystal champagne flutes, and Emmy is a part of it. 

The lights dim, once, twice, and Ruby and Amber reappear and take their seats only just in time for the violent opening chords of the first piece. During intermission, Ruby leans over to Emmy after conferring with Papa, and says, “We have been invited to the after party that Lady Jones is giving for the dancers, and Papa has said we might go.” 

And Emmy? Emmy grips her sisters hand in wordless thanks. Ruby smiles at her and retakes her seat. 

It will be her first party, and it will be for a troupe that she loves. The second half of the performance, although just as beautiful and entertaining as the first, seems to drag on when she thinks of the party to follow. The finale, however, with the entire troupe as well as half the London opera ballet, and which involves fireworks and guns and flying machines, is absolutely spectacular. Emmy claps her hands numb, and then sits back in her chair, exhausted, as though she herself had just danced for three hours instead of merely watching a performance. 

There is a line of motorcars and steam carriages three blocks long, of course, all leading up to the front doors of the theatre, but Henry, their driver, is able to pull up ahead of the rest when the bobby in charge of directing traffic sees his special plates, and Emmy, for the first time, is able to appreciate her condition in a good light. 

Even so, they don’t arrive first at Lady Jones’s house, a lovely and sprawling townhouse on the corner of Fleet and Clerkenwell, which is at once both puzzling and relieving. Lady Jones herself greets them in the entrance hall. 

“Oh, welcome, welcome,” she says, beaming. “Do come in. Sir Hubert, so nice of you to join us. My! but it has been a long time, hasn’t it?” 

“Too long, Lady Jones,” Papa says, kissing her hand. 

“You haven’t lost your touch, I see,” the lady says, giggling. “Get along with you. Please, make yourselves at home. The dancers, I’m told, will be arriving any moment now. Wasn’t that performance simply the most thrilling thing ever? Champagne?” 

She reminds Emmy of an overweight red bubble, dressed in a puce-colored gown that does nothing for her complexion. However, she does make a point of remembering Emmy’s name, and pinches her cheek kindly enough. Emmy finds a convenient empty corner from where she can see the entire room and parks there, sipping a glass of punch and nibbling on an hors d'oeuvre. She knows when the dancers arrived, because the guests all at once constellate towards the front door. Emmy does not. She waits, observing an octet setting up in the far corner. So there would be dancing; Lady Jones really was a bubble: hadn’t the poor dancers enough dancing for one day? 

The ballerinas are all gorgeous, of course, with high cheekbones and silky dark hair and eyes, and their dresses are the height of Paris fashion, Ruby informs Emmy when she stops by with a glass of lemonade sometime later. “And the male dancers! They have such horrible thick accents, Russian, I think; but they are so quick to laugh, and polite too! Do come meet some people, Emmy. You’ve been in this corner all evening.” 

Emmy mutely shakes her head. Ruby, used to it, leaves her alone. Soon enough, the dancing begins; Emmy stops a passing footman and asks for directions to the library, and waits by the window, reading a book. When someone comes in a while later, Emmy doesn’t think twice about it, thinking it is one of her sisters, who always seemed to know where to find her room of escape. 

“Why are you reading in here, alone, when everyone is out having a good time?” 

Emmy drops her book, startled, for it is not one of her sisters; it isn’t even female. It is one of the danseur, startlingly handsome and tall, and speaks English with a heavy accent. He smiles at her and hands her the book. “Excuse me,” Emmy begins, “I thought--” 

“I know I am ugly, you do not have to apologize.” 

Emmy raises an eyebrow, and says archly, “I wasn’t going to apologize for being started by your ugliness, I was going to apologize for your ugliness.” 

And he laughs, and drapes himself on the window seat. “Why are you hiding in here?” 

“I cannot dance,” Emmy says. 

His brow wrinkles, then clears as he takes in the chair she sits in. “Ah, a wheelchair. It is-- how do you say-- a nice modern.” 

“What? Oh, you must mean model. Yes. My father helped design it.” 

“And your father, he cannot allow you to dance?” 

“I am sure, if I could, he would let me.” 

The dancer laughs again. “You haven’t found the right dance partner yet, I am sure.” He stands, in a graceful movement, and bows. “Lady-- what is your name?” 

“Emmy-- Emerald,” she says, and blushes. 

“Lady Emerald,” the dancer says, “may I have this dance?” He offers her his hand. She takes it, hesitantly. And then they are whirling madly around the room to the quartet, and Emmy doesn’t know how he’s doing it, but they’re dancing. She starts to laugh. The song is over too soon, and the dancer deposits her back into the chair. “You see?” he says. “You just needed the right dance partner, Lady Emerald.” 

“Thank you,” Emmy says. “You were right.” 

“And now, Lady Emerald, will you not accompany me into the main ballroom? I have a terrible fear of parties, I must confess.” 

“Of course,” she says, and they are making their way into the ballroom when Lady Jones spots them and bounds over and booms, “Ah, Count Baginsky, I see you have met Emerald Hamilton. Miss Hamilton is the daughter of Sir Hubert, whom I think you met earlier...? And her sisters, of course, Misses Amber and Ruby.” 

“Yes, I remember,” the dancer-- a count!-- replies, and Emmy suddenly feels sick and hot. 

“Please excuse me,” she says, and escapes to find a glass of water. 

* 

Very late that evening, when Papa is asleep, Ruby and Amber sneak down for a snack. Emmy, lying in bed, can hear them rummaging around in the kitchens, talking softly with each other. She considers playing asleep when she hears her door open, but rolls over and says, “You might as well come in, I know you want to.” 

They don’t need any more urging, and pile onto Emmy’s bed, offering their snack, which Emmy refuses with a shake of her head. 

“So,” Amber starts, but Ruby shoots her a harsh look, and takes Emmy’s hand. 

“Emmy,” Ruby says, “will you tell us what happened, please? You’ve said hardly a word since we returned home.” 

Emmy shrugs and crosses her arms. “What is there to say?” 

“You just look so sad,” Amber says. 

“What did Count Baginsky say to you?” Ruby bursts out. Amber closes her eyes in disgust. “What? We both want to know! First he disappears, and next you and he come out from the library together, and you’re smiling! You never smile anymore. And then Lady Jones says something, and you...” 

“Wither,” Amber puts in. 

“Yes, thank you, wonderful word. You wither. Now, come on; tell your sisters what’s the matter.” 

Emmy looks down at her hands. “I didn’t know he was a count. It just surprised me, that’s all.” 

“But what did he say to you? You were smiling!” 

"Ruby,” Amber says sharply. “Let her talk. Go ahead, Emmy, dear.” 

“I don’t know.” She takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, then lets go. “He danced with me.” 

“Danced with you!” They are both scandalized. “Did he--” 

“He was the perfect gentleman,” she adds quickly, “I assure you. And that’s not it, either. It’s...” She sighs, giving up; there is no chance of explaining her feelings, not to her sisters, perhaps not to anyone. “I was a little overwhelmed. Our first outing in two years, and it was all a bit much for me.” 

Ruby and Amber exchange a glance. “If you’re sure,” Ruby says. 

“I am,” Emmy says with a sharp nod. 

“We’ll skip the party next time,” Amber says. 

“Next time?” 

“Oh, yes, Papa said that he enjoyed his evening so much we shall be attending more performances, perhaps every weekend!” Ruby’s eyes sparkle with excitement. “Can you just imagine?” 

“Yes, I am certain that she can. Come on, Ruby. Let’s leave our sister to sleep. She must be exhausted.” They both kiss her on the forehead, and then leave. Emmy lays back down again, and pulls the covers up to her chin. She would indeed like to go out again; she loves their house, but it does get a bit stuffy at times. And she isn’t overwhelmed, not at all. She is just surprised, that was all, that the kind, handsome man had been a count, and he had danced with her, and hadn’t been condescending at all; and she will never see him again. Her one brief hour when she had danced is over. 

* 

But she does see him again, astonishingly enough; that next weekend they attend a performance of Gounod’s Faust, and Emmy, while scanning the crowd, spots a familiar cap of dark curls, and he turns around and waves merrily at her, as though he could feel her looking. She sits back abruptly, and turns to Ruby. 

“Do you recognize that man, there?” 

Ruby’s quick intake of breath indicates that she does recognize him. “That’s the Count?” she hisses, hardly moving her lips. 

“Yes.” 

“Just wait here. I’ll find out everything.” 

Emmy spies Ruby in the center box, where the famed Lady Rochester holds her court; if there is any piece of gossip or information to be heard, Lady Rochester will know it. Her sister returns, and says, “She was just discussing that very same subject.” 

“Well? What is there to know!” 

“He has decided to stay her in London until next season.” 

“What! But--” 

“The ballet season in Poland, or Russia, or heaven knows where, is different than it is here, she said that he said. He’s done until March, and liked London well enough that he decided to take up residence here for the winter.” Ruby shrugs. “Lady Rochester reports that everyone here likes him so far. Don’t look like that, Emmy.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like someone decided to take away your favorite book or something. I thought you enjoyed speaking with this count.” 

“I...I did. It’s not that. I was just-- surprised. That’s all. It’s nothing to worry about. Thank you for asking around for me; you don’t have to sit here and chaperone me, no one will bother me in our box; Papa is too well-known, and he’s only just two boxes over. Go have fun.” 

“If you’re sure,” Ruby says, already halfway gone. 

“Go ahead.” 

“You’re a darling.” 

When Emmy looks again, the Count is gone, and she is unsurprised when he sticks his head through the curtain at the back of the box and says, “May I come in, please?” 

“Certainly,” Emmy says. 

“I don’t believe we were ever properly introduced,” Count Baginsky says, coming down and sitting beside Emmy. “I am Fyodor Baginsky, a humble Polish gentleman who can dance a little. And you are...?” 

“Emerald Hamilton, but I don’t like that; please call me Emmy.” 

“Emmy Hamilton.” He says it as though discovering how it tasted. “You ran off so suddenly at the Lady Jones’s party last weekend, I was certain I had offended you.” 

“Oh, no. I very much enjoyed your company. Thank you, by the bye.” 

“And your family? They come to the theatre very often?” 

“Just lately,” Emmy says. She blushes. “Your ballet troupe was actually the first time we’d been out together in...a long time.” 

“I have heard about your mother, the Lady Hamilton. I wish to express my condolences.” He pronounces it very carefully, with great satisfaction, as though he had practiced beforehand. Emmy smiles. “And there is the smile again! Do you find me so funny-looking, is that the cause?” 

“You do need something to distract from your horrible dancing,” Emmy says, and laughs out loud as he raises a hand to his heart and groans. 

“A hit, Miss Hamilton, a hit! You wound me deeply. I do not know how I can ever live again.” 

Papa comes into the box, eyebrows quirking when he sees the Count. “Papa,” Emmy says, “this is Count Baginsky.” 

“Sir,” Count Baginsky says, standing up quickly and bowing. “I was just saying hellos to Miss Hamilton. We met last week at Lady Jones’s party.” 

“I thought I remembered you,” Papa says. “Welcome. Would you care for a glass of champagne, some wine? I do not drink, but the theatre insists upon sending them up for us.” 

“Thank you, sir,” the Count says, sitting down again. “I was about to ask Miss Hamilton, where would one be able to acquire new party clothes? I have been invited to so many parties and dinners I find I am in need of new clothes. Your English food, very heavy!” 

“I can have my tailor send you his card,” Papa says, not unkindly. He hands the Count a glass of champagne. 

“Thank you very so.” 

“How...how do you like London so far, Count?” Emmy ventures, after a small pause. 

“Ah, London! I do like it. It is very big indeed.” 

“So is Paris,” Papa comments. 

“Paris is big, but not like London. London, she is...In Paris,” he says, gesticulating wildly, “the buildings are close together, no? But they spread out to be distant. In London, the buildings are pushed together, into a small land. Yes?” 

“I do see what you mean, Count,” Papa says, smiling. 

“So, I feel like London is big, because I can get more views of her. Looking out from my windows, I can see at least ten different shops! I think this is mad, of course, but I like it.” 

“Where are you living?” 

“In a house, somewhere, I do not know. I have a driver, I show him my invitation, and he takes me there.” 

“I do hope you enjoy your stay here,” Papa says. The Count seems to take the hint, because he leaps to his feet. 

“I must return to my seat,” he says. “Thank you, sir, for the champagne and the advice.” He bows. “And thank you, Miss Hamilton, for you company.” He kisses her hand, bows once again, and leaves. 

“Oh, Papa,” Emmy says. “Do say something instead of just sitting there.” 

“I quite like that fellow,” Papa says, and laughs. 

* 

Ruby and Amber are beside themselves with planning for Emmy’s introduction to society. 

“Why aren’t you taking this seriously?” Ruby-- Ruby!-- snaps at Emmy one afternoon, when Emmy, bored, had happened to yawn. 

“Sorry,” Emmy says. “I didn’t mean to.” 

“Let’s take a break,” Amber suggests. Ruby stalks out of the room. “Honestly, Emmy. You could be a little more interested.” 

“I just...don’t see why we have to have a ball at all,” Emmy says, tracing invisible shapes on the table with her finger. “It’s not like I can dance with any eligible men in any case.” 

“You’re going to sing, and play,” Amber says with an air of finality. 

“I don’t want to.” 

“Sorry, did you hear me ask? Ruby and I had to go through with it on our eighteenths, all those men stepping on our toes, M-- Papa looming threateningly over anyone who dared to even entertain the idea of compromising us--” 

“Oh, come now, Papa did not loom.” 

“He did, and you know it, you were there! My point is, we had to go through with it, and at least you won’t have them stepping on your toes, you can be grateful for that.” 

Ruby returns, and smiles at them. “I feel better. Shall we continue with the invitations?” 

The ballroom has been booked for a month now, and the caterers, and the flowers are picked out; all that is left is to send out invitations. This is the most tedious part of the whole process, Emmy is sure: she has not the handwriting for filling out invitations, and so her job, apparently, is to sit there and try to look helpful and not fall asleep. 

“Yes,” Amber says, glancing at Emmy, who straightens up with a sigh. “Next is an invitation for Count Fyodor Baginsky.” 

“We aren’t inviting him, are we?” 

“Emmy, why are you surprised? He’s the celebrity of the season, we can’t not invite him.” Amber cups Emmy’s chin. “You’re probably nursing some torrid love for him, aren’t you?” 

“I am not, as you put it, ‘nursing some torrid love for him.’ I just don’t see why we have to invite him.” She crosses her arms defensively. 

“But you were so eager to meet him,” Ruby points out, her quarrel seemingly forgotten in an opportunity to tease her younger sister. “And I saw you smiling and laughing with him at the opera last week.” 

“I just-- he’s a dancer!” 

“Actually, he’s a danseur,” Amber says, scratching away at the paper. 

“Do not invite him!” Emmy starts to wheel around to take the invitation from her, but Amber jumps up and gets on top of the desk, holding it just close enough so that Emmy can’t quite reach it. “I’m going to hit you!” 

“Ladies, is there a problem?” Papa asks mildly from the door. “Is there a flood, Amber, is that why you are standing on the furniture?” 

“Sorry, Papa,” Amber says, climbing down. “We are making up invitations, and Emmy simply did not wish us to invite someone.” 

“Who?” 

“The daughter of a-- friend of ours,” Ruby says quickly. “Emmy is not very close with her, and so disagreed with us.” 

Papa frowns, says vaguely, “Emmy, you should listen to your sisters,” and leaves. 

“Write out the address,” Amber asks Ruby, “and then give it to Henry yourself, so that Emmy can’t do anything with it.” 

“He can come to the ball if he wants to,” Emmy mumbles. 

“What was that?” Ruby says. 

“I said, he can come.” 

“Why, thank you everso, sister dear,” Ruby says, finishing the envelope with a flourish. 

“I don’t see why you couldn’t’ve had the printers do the invitations.” 

“You’re just picky today, aren’t you? They look nicer if we do them ourselves.” She stands up and calls for Henry, handing him a large stack of invitations to deliver. 

“Very good, miss,” Henry says stiffly, and leaves to deliver them. 

“We have ten more, and then we’re due at the dressmaker’s for your final fitting,” Amber says. “Why don’t you go make us some tea?” 

Emmy takes the hint and rolls into the kitchen and makes a lot of noise putting the kettle on and boiling water and pouring the water into cups, and then, thankfully, it’s time to go.

*

Roberto the Great is performing a special magic act, and so of course they cannot miss it. It does not matter that Emmy’s coming out is in less than three days; Papa insists upon it, claiming that it will take their minds off things. And while it is true that tempers have been a little high in the Hamilton household-- that very morning Emmy broke a plate when she slammed it onto the breakfast table-- Emmy does not think that a magic act will be the solution.

The theatre is mostly empty this time, and Emmy can clearly see Count Baginsky where he sits in the common seats before the orchestra pit. He almost doesn’t notice her, but just as the lights begin to lower, he glances behind himself one last time and smiles when he sees her. Emmy looks away all but angry, trying to pretend she doesn’t care. Ruby and Amber have reported that the Count greets everyone that way. It means nothing.

Music, low and ominous, starts up from the orchestra. Roberto the Great comes on stage to a wash of applause. He is a small, unassuming figure, dressed all in black with a white mask, and he performs in perfect silence. He holds the audience in complete rapture while he causes pianos to float above the stage, changes ordinary roses into doves, and escapes with minutes to spare from a coffin submerged in a tank of water while clothed in a straitjacket. The finale is marvelous: Roberto’s assistants bring out a wax dummy, which is obviously connected to no strings or wires, and the magician, with a wave of his hand, causes it to waltz grotesquely around the stage. When he is finished, Roberto sweeps a low bow, and then exits. It takes stunned audience a few moments to collect themselves before they applaud, but the magician does not return to the stage. 

“Emmy,” Ruby hisses. “Come on, we’re leaving.” Emmy follows them in a dream. Everyone is whispering, almost sneaking out from the theatre, not daring to break the spell that Roberto has cast upon them. The entrance hall is silent in comparison to its usual state after a performance. 

Emmy is about to roll out the door when Count Baginsky catches up her. “Miss Hamilton,” he says courteously. “I had hoped you would be here.”

“My family wished to come, and I bowed to their much superior intellect,” Emmy replies. “Pardon me, Count, but it appears we are blocking the door.” 

“Oh, how rude of me,” he says, bowing to the started people around them. “By all means, let us exit.” 

Henry isn’t there yet, and her family is staying within polite call but without immediate vicinity, and so Emmy has no excuse not to speak with the Count. 

“Did you enjoy the magician, Count?” Emmy asks. 

“I did, very much. Did you?” 

“Yes; I particularly liked the final act.” 

“Ah, dancing.” He scuffs his feet. “I fear I take it for granted much too often.” 

“Nearly everyone does.” An idea is forming in the back of her head; but she doesn’t pay attention to it, simply lets it grow untouched. “I cannot remember, Count,” she says, turning towards him; “did you say if you were coming to my coming out ball or not?” 

“I am pleased to announce that I am,” he says. 

“Thank you,” she says. “At least there will be one person there whom I like.” 

Thankfully, the carriage pulls up just at that moment. 

“Ah, Miss Hamilton,” the Count is saying, “I am most--”

“’scuse me, sir,” Henry grunts, nearly knocking Count Baginsky over as he manhandles Emmy’s chair into the steam carriage. 

“I shall see you there,” Emmy says out the window. 

“Yes, Miss Hamilton, I will be there,” he says, bowing to them as the carriage pulls away. 

When they arrive home, Emmy waits impatiently for her family to retire; and then she lets herself out of the house and wheels quickly back to the theatre. It is the first time she has ever been out this late at night, and the backfiring of the motorcars and the hissing of the sewers frightens her. She finally makes it back to the theatre, and tries the backdoor. 

“Yes, miss?” a stagehand asks when he sees her backstage. “You shouldn’t be back here, miss.” 

“I’m looking for Roberto the Great, please,” she says, and is pleased to find her voice firm and steady. 

He looks her over doubtfully, and then says, “Wait here, I’ll get ‘im for you.” The stagehand returns presently with a man who wears the same clothes as Roberto, but without the mask his he is even smaller, and easily overlooked. 

“You wanted to see me?” he asks without preamble. 

“Yes, sir,” Emmy says. She glances at the stagehand, so obviously listening to them. “Please, sir, I have a favor to ask of you. May we go somewhere private?” 

Roberto exchanges a look with the stagehand, but says, “Right then, come this way, please.” He leads her into a cluttered dressing room and sits down, lighting a foul black cigarette, and then taking a deep inhalation with one hand while pouring a glass of gin with the other. “All right, what is it you want?” 

Emmy takes a deep breath, and says, “As you see, sir, I am confined to this wheelchair. I have my introduction to society in a few days, and that entails a ball.” 

“Go on,” he says. 

“I wondered...your finale. Would it not be possible for you to allow me to dance?” He stares at her with a strange, almost savage expression before relaxing into one she recognized: pity. Her hands clenched into fists. “I don’t want you pity,” she spits. 

“Sorry, miss. My magic is merely illusion.”

She nods, once, and makes as though to go. 

“Wait. Please.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair with the hand not holding the cigarette. “I have a friend who may be able to help you. He’s done some work with miracles.” 

“I don’t need a miracle, sir. I need technology. Can your friend help me or not?” 

They look at each other for a moment. 

“He might be able to help you, yes, miss.” 

“Very well, what is his name and address?” 

Shaking his head, Roberto rummages through a pile of junk until he finds a scrap of paper and a pencil, and then scribbles onto it before handing it to Emmy. “His name’s John Sharpe, he’s a spiritualist and inventor. Tell him I sent you, and that he should listen to what you have to say. That’s all I can do, miss.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Emmy says, and leaves. The address is for a small street not far from the theatre; she turns down the road and marvels at the quick devolution. It is dark and shadowy, street lamps or no, and Emmy hurries to find the correct house. 

John Sharpe’s house is the best-kept on the street, and bears an unlikely brass plate on the door stamped with the words “John Sharpe, Speaker for the Dead” in large letters, and, below that, in smaller type, “Inventor.” Emmy knocks on the door. 

There is a loud crash somewhere inside, and half a moment later the door the opens violently. “Yes?” the man says crisply. “What do you want?” 

“Roberto the Great sent me,” Emmy says, twisting the small piece of paper where the address is written. 

“Really? You’d better come in, then,” he says, and allows her through into the house. He shows her into a sitting room infested with lacy doilies and asks if she would like any tea. 

“No, thank you,” she says. “It is rather late, and I only have a few minutes.” 

“Very well, then. What can I, John Sharpe, spiritualist extraordinaire, do for you?” 

“It isn’t that occupation which I require, sir. I am in need of an inventor.” 

He seems to collapse slightly in on himself. “Damn. Excuse me. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink?” 

“Quite certain, sir. If I could just talk with you--”

“Come with me, I might as well show you my workshop.” 

His workshop is a terrifically untidy room, lined with shelves on which sit all manner of machines, both obviously broken and outwardly operating. Stray nails and screws and bolts and tools litter the floor, and-- she leans closer-- were those some sort of brains floating in a jar on that table? 

“All right, miss. What is it you need?” 

She jerks her eyes away from the jar and says, “Can you make me walk?” 

“What for?” 

“My introduction is in four days. We’re having a ball afterwards. I’d like to be able to dance.” 

He’s studying her with muddy green eyes, gnawing on his lip. “Can you feel your legs?” 

“Yes, sir. When I was a child my mother accidentally dropped me down the stairs, I haven’t been able to move them since. I can feel them, they just don’t...work.” 

“Hm.” After a long moment of consideration, he says, “I can make you walk.” 

“Really?” She hardly dares to hope. 

“Yes. But it will cost you.” 

“How much do you need?” 

Sharpe’s shaking his head. “I won’t take money, not for these things. What are you good at?” 

“Nothing, really. I can sing and play a little.” 

He snaps his fingers. “Your voice. That’s just the thing I need.” 

“You...want my voice?” 

“Yes.” He’s bounding around the room, throwing things everywhere; he knocks a glass vial to the floor, but takes no notice. “I can use it for my séances. It’s just the thing I’ve been looking for.” Sharpe holds up what looks like an ordinary phonograph. “This is my recent invention. Isn’t it beautiful?” 

“It’s a phonograph.” 

“Not just any phonograph. This one steals a person’s voice. It took me ten years.” He looks at it fondly. “And then I can play it back, as often as I need it. Speak into the horn, and then it records your voice onto the records. Forever.” 

“Can you reverse it?”

He looks at her in horror. “Why would I want to do that?” 

“In case...in case you ever needed to.” 

“Well, yes, I do suppose I could...not that I would ever want to...it would be a simple matter of playing the record backward while the original speaker mouths the words...”

Emmy nods decisively. “Very well, sir; if you can make me walk, you may have my voice.” 

“Of course I can make you walk! I can take your voice, I can make you walk.” Sharpe reaches up onto a shelf and pulls down two tiny boxes with needles jutting out from an opposite side. “I implant these into your ankles, and you can walk anywhere you want.” 

“How do they work?” She stares at them, fascinated. 

“Electricity,” he says. “The needles stimulate the nerves in your legs, which allows you to walk. Do we have a deal?” 

“Very well, Mr. Sharpe,” Emmy says, tearing her attention from the machines. “You may have my voice in exchange for your walking machines.” 

“Excellent,” he says, setting the machines down and picking up his grammophone once more. He hands it to Emmy. “Your voice first, please.” 

“What should I do?”

Sharpe sighs and hunts through an overflowing drawer for a pen, and scribbles on a scrap of paper. “Read these into the grammophone, in order, clearly, and wait at least half a minute between each.” 

Emmy takes the paper and reads it over. “‘Is that you, dear? Is that you, father? Is that you, mother? I’m happy now. I miss you. Keep me in your memory. I love you.’” 

“I can play the record during séances. It’s what people want to hear. Their daughter, or wife, is dead, and she’s happy.” He shrugs. “Well, go ahead. I’ll be next door. I want to make some adjustments to your machines.” Sharpe leaves.

The grammophone makes an odd noise when Emmy switches it on, like the grumbling of an engine, almost too low to hear. As she says the lines, her throat feels lighter, and by the time she finishes the last statement, she has nothing left but a whisper that trails away alarmingly.

Sharpe pokes his head back in, and sees that the grammophone is off. “You’re done, then. Good. I’m ready, too.” He comes into the room, and kneels on the floor by Emmy’s chair. “Would you kindly remove your stockings?”

Emmy does so. 

“Ah. Would you mind if I touched your legs?” 

“Well, you are going to need to eventually, aren’t you?” she says, or tries to. Nothing comes out. Instead, she nods. 

“Oh. Good.” He carefully takes her left leg and straightens it out, so he can get to the lower calf and attach one of his machines to it. Emmy can hear the beep the machine makes when he fiddles with something on it. Her leg jerks. “It works!” he says, sounding somewhat surprised. He places the other machine on her right leg. “Now. Stand up.” 

Emmy takes the arms on her chair and forces herself up: she feels the machines buzz slightly, and she remains on her feet. She glances up at Sharpe, elated. 

“Walk!” 

Taking a step unsteadily, Emmy almost falls over in shock: not only is she walking for the time, but simultaneous are sharp pains in her feet and legs, as though she were standing on knives. It hurts, and very much. But-- She’s standing! She’s walking! What is a little pain in comparison? She smiles at Sharpe, despite the discomfort, who grins back. 

“Remember to recharge them every night, or else they won’t work, and clean the punctures with alcohol before and after you remove them machines,” Sharpe says, handing her a adaptor-plug. “Thank you for the voice-overs, miss. I hope you will enjoy your legs. May I show you out?” He takes her arm, and leads her to the front door, where he kisses her hand and bows and Emmy runs and runs and there isn’t anyone awake in her house, so she simply goes to bed, and dreams of walking. 

* 

Next morning, when Emmy walks out to the breakfast table, at first no one notices anything different; and then Ruby screams and drops the butter plate and jumps up and fairly tackles Emmy; and then Amber takes Emmy by the shoulders and starts shaking her in amazement; and Papa simply sits in his chair, sobbing. 

“Emmy! How has this happened?”

“Emmy, you can walk! My sister, walking! Such a miracle! Papa, we must go see the relatives today, and show Emmy off. Would you like that, Emmy?” 

She never gets a chance to reply, and soon her sisters are rushing around, dressing in their day gowns, and calling for the carriage, while Papa continues to cry at the deserted breakfast table. Emmy goes to him and kneels beside his chair. He takes her face and kisses her forehead. 

“...your mother...” he says, and then shakes his head, helping her to stand. “Never mind, my dear. We shall not look this gift horse in the mouth, but enjoy it. Now, I must go stop your sisters: it is time for church, not for visiting.” He winks at her and then goes off. 

They cause quite a stir when they enter the cathedral, all walking beside each other. And the whispers don’t stop completely, not even when the Parson begins the service, and there is a continual flutter of hats and hair as everyone tries to catch a glimpse of Emerald Hamilton, who can now miraculously walk. After the service, they are mobbed while everyone crowds around, each wanting to speak to Emmy personally and congratulate her. 

Emmy floats on a sea of red pain, smiling unceasingly but screaming inside. No one so far has given her a chance to speak, so that particular bombshell hasn’t yet come to light; and so Emmy counts her blessings and grits her teeth. 

While the crowd flows past them, Emmy simply stares, smiling and fixed; and then she focuses in on the Count, who is in the company of Lady Rochester, and they are both making their way determinedly through the throng; no one dares stop them, of course. 

“Miss Hamilton,” Lady Rochester says, taking her hand. “How nicely fortuitous this event is. I daresay you must be simply overcome with joy.” 

Wordless, Emmy nods. 

“Then I count myself lucky to be among the first to congratulate you.” She squeezes Emmy’s hand, and then moves over to speak with Papa. 

“You can walk now,” the Count says, stunned. “How is this come about?” 

Knowing everyone is watching-- and, more importantly, listening-- Emmy shakes her head and mouths, “Not here.” The Count nods and takes her arm. 

“May I escort you to your carriage, Miss Hamilton?” he asks, and Emmy smiles and allows him to lead her away. 

He shows her to a deserted hallway behind the main chapel, and says, “Now, speak to me.” 

Emmy takes out a small pad of paper and a pencil she’d thought to hide in her bag before church, and writes, “I sold my voice so that I could walk.” Then she hands it to the Count. 

His reaction is disproportionately violent: he throws down the paper, stamps his foot, and seizes her by the shoulders. “You mean that you cannot speak any more?” 

Emmy, frightened, nods. 

The Count dissolves into quick epithets in his native tongue, stalking around furiously. Emmy snatches up the paper once more and writes, “Why does this make you so angry? It was my voice; and you cannot know my agony, not to be able to walk! How dare you!”

He reads it with quick movement, and throws up his hands. “But not to be able to speak! Miss Hamilton-- now you cannot now communicate with the earth. You must be silent. You-- you have become just like them?” 

“What?” she mouths. 

“You have become like every other woman,” he spits. “You are now content to be only looked at, a mere decoration, since you cannot speak. And I thought you were different.” 

Emmy tries to speak, as hard as she ever used to try to walk before. But, alas. No sound escapes her. A single tear falls from her eyes, and this seems to penetrate the Count’s temper. He sighs. 

“I apologize,” Count Baginsky says with a formal bow. “Please, let me escort you back to your family.” He takes her arm coldly. 

She writes quickly, “Please do not be angry with me. Will you still attend my introduction ball?” 

“Yes, I will. I have no other plans.” 

The blow is terrible, and Emmy struggles to compose herself as they reenter company. The rest of the afternoon is uncomfortable and long and warm for the season, and Emmy is glad when they return home and collapse in the sitting room. 

“Well, Emmy,” Ruby says. “You’ve been awfully quiet today.” 

There was no better time, she supposes. So Emmy writes, “I have lost my voice for some reason,” and shows it to them. 

“Did this happen this morning, when you found you could walk?” Papa asks, brow furrowed, already in scientist mode. 

Emmy nods. 

“It could be a selective, acute--”

“Oh, Papa! This is no time for scientific pandering! This is Emmy we are talking about!” Ruby presses Emmy to her breast. “My dear, will you regain your voice before the party?” 

“I think so,” Emmy writes. “This has happened before.” 

“Really?” Papa says. “In that case, we should not worry too much, I think.” He searches her face. “Are you certain?” 

She nods. 

“Then we can do no more,” he says. “Panic will not help in any event, and so we should continue on as though nothing were changed. Are we are agreed?” 

“Yes, Papa,” Ruby and Amber mutter, and Emmy says it internally.

* 

The next few days is nothing but a rush of preparation for Emmy’s introduction and ball, and Emmy’s silence is nearly always passed over. Finally, Emmy writes Papa a note on the morning of the events that says, “I do have my voice back now, but I am saving it for tonight’s ball.” 

Papa looks at her oddly and says, “This is very important to you, isn’t it? Of course you may rest your voice. I am glad it has returned. Now, go get dressed. The carriage will be here shortly.” 

Emmy loves her Introduction dress: it is white, of course, but with blue-grey ribbons at the neckline and wrists and all over the skirts, in the latest fashion; and her shoes are the same blue. She puts it on with care, and then Ruby helps her with her hair, and then it is time to leave for the Palace. 

The actual introduction itself is so uneventful Emmy feels as though she might have missed it had she blinked one time too many: she curtsies to the Queen, and then she has nothing to do for several long hours until the ball that evening. Her family returns home, and Emmy, heedless of the pain and of her dress, wanders around in the tiny dead garden behind the house, enjoying the unseasonal sunshine. 

Soon the sun is setting, and Emmy suffers Ruby’s attentions on her hair, and then back into the carriage for the ride to the hotel where the ball will be held. 

The ballroom looks lovely: real candles instead of electric lights-- no matter to the mess of wax-- a ten piece orchestra for the dances, a piano for Emmy’s solo later--

Her solo. They are expecting her to sing.

Before Emmy can make any plans to change this expectation, her guests are arriving, and she must greet them. Many eligible young men have been invited, and soon her dance-card is full. Emmy dances one waltz after another, polkas, Quadrilles, mazureks, with no chance to even breathe between them, let alone explain to her family that she cannot possibly sing. 

All at once, the music stops, and Papa leads Emmy up to the piano, where a musician waits patiently. He begins the introduction while Emmy stares out at the sea of people. Her entrance comes, and when Emmy does not begin to sing, the musician frowns and plays around to the entrance once more. After the third time this happens, the musician stops altogether, and this is more than Emmy can bear. She turns in a whirl of skirts and runs from the ballroom. 

She stops, out of breath, outside among the topiary, breath streaming white into the air. She clutches her elbows, cold, and sits on a bench. 

Count Baginsky appears out of the darkness, stony-faced. He stops before her. “I apologize for my rudeness,” he says. 

Emmy throws her hands up in the air. He would forgive her now, now that she has been punished, she is sure. But she cannot tell him this. 

“It was wrong of me to be so forward,” he continues. “I should not have presumed to be making assumptions about your character. I do not, after all, know the you.” 

Her mouth drops open. 

“I am sorry for your embarrassment tonight, here, as well. I am sure you were a lovely singer. And you did look very happy to be dancing. I thank you for inviting me, and must now make my leave.” He bows. He turns to leave, but then hesitates. “Will you not take my coat? It is rather cold tonight.” 

The hand stretched across the abyss, offering kindness-- but he is not kind, he is angry, hurt, confused. Emmy shakes her head, tears burning her cold cheeks. 

“Very well,” the Count says. He bows once more, and heads inside. 

Emmy tilts her face back, splintering the bright stars into sharp fragments, and feels an unexpected pain in her right leg as her foot spasms. She gasps: the sensation is excruciating, even moreso than simply walking was before. Off the bench, then, and her foot skitters on the ground, tapping to an infernal melody. A clock, somewhere strikes midnight; she marks this because her left leg seems to, at very much the same time, become infected with the same spirit as the other, and she cannot hold herself still in a single place.

The voices of her sisters and Papa calling for her make Emmy falter backwards, deeper into the shadows of the topiary and silent statues. They cannot see her like this. But what should she do? What can she do? She hides herself behind a tall hedge and, still kicking and hopping, bends over to try to turn the machines off, to take them out, *anything.* A panic seizes her: they will not come out! They will not turn off! She begins to cry now, everything too much. 

“Emmy?” 

Ruby is entirely too close, Emmy thinks, throwing herself forward, not caring when she becomes hopelessly lost among the maze of garden assemblages: they must not see her like this. Where can she go? She reaches the other side of the maze, and sees an opening to the sidewalks of the main streets. Who can help her? Surely there must be something wrong with the machines-- John Sharpe will just have to take them back and return her voice! 

Swerving madly, Emmy races as quickly as she can to his home, where she beats desperately at the door. 

“Yes? Yes?” He wipes his eyes, and then frowns when he sees Emmy. “What is the matter? What on earth are you doing?” 

“Your machines are broken!” Emmy screams silently. 

“I suppose you had better come in, then. For goodness sake, don’t break anything! Stand still. Here-- here.” He hands her a small pad of paper. “Write down what you want.” 

“I can’t stop dancing,” she scribbles. 

“What do you mean, you can’t stop dancing? That’s preposterous.”

Emmy throws up her hands in frustration. The pain-- she can stand it no longer. “Give me back my voice so I can explain, just for a moment,” she writes.

“But your voice has become so useful to me!” 

She screws up her face and sobs soundlessly, and thankfully, he seems to finally take the hint. Sharpe takes her carefully by the elbow, avoiding her kicking legs, and helps her back into his shop, where he stands her in an emptier corner, and then gives her back her voice. Emmy screams, and screams. 

“Shh! Stop that! Tell me what the matter is!” 

“Mr. Sharpe, please,” she begs; “it hurts too much! I can’t turn the machines off, I don’t know what they are doing, but I cannot take it much longer! Please, help me!” 

“If you’ll stop dancing around, I could take a look.” 

“I can’t stop!” 

“What do you mean, you can’t stop?” 

Emmy wails. 

“All right, all right, you can’t stop dancing. I shall try to take a look in any case.” He grumbles to himself as he sinks to his knees and tries to avoid her kicks as best he can. After a moment, he staggers away jerkily, wiping a hand across his face. “My god,” he says. “They will not come off. They will not come out! I cannot even begin to think what could have happened-- What shall I do?” 

“Cut them out, anything, please!” 

“Ah, of course--” He takes up a knife in one hand, kneels down again, but stops. “Miss--”

“What? What?” 

“I’ll have to take your whole foot off.” 

“What!”

“I’m sorry!” He’s wringing his hands, the wretched man, he should feel horrified, remorseful. “The needles, they will go too far into your legs for me to get the machines off without--” 

Emmy closes her eyes, willing herself to wake up. “Do it. For god’s sake, do it, please!” 

* 

Luckily, John Sharpe has a good medicine chest, with military grade cauterizing gauze, and so it isn’t as bad as it could have been. He also gives her back the chair she had left. He doesn’t consent to return her voice permanently, however, and it is a very pale and silent Emmy that quietly wheels herself back home and lifts herself into bed, only to be woken early that morning when Amber and Ruby stumble in to check up on her to find her covered in blood and footless. 

Emmy lies in bed for days, not willing to explain. She spends her time just staring out the window, which opens into nothing but the tops of the bushes and empty air. 

Ruby cannot see her without crying, and so it is Amber who tells Emmy all the news, sitting in a chair beside the bed, speaking to Emmy’s back. The downside to this situation is that Amber doesn’t see fit to spare Emmy any of the gossip. 

“The whole city is talking about your introduction,” Amber says softly. “They aren’t quite certain what to make of it.”

Emmy makes a restless movement. 

“Oh, well, some of them think it was all a stunt, a funny sort of entertainment. Some of them think you just had a bad attack of nerves. I...we have not said a thing yet.” 

That is some small comfort, she supposes. 

Flicker of sunrises and sunsets, and Ruby takes a turn to visit. 

“And...and the weather stations are saying it will surely snow by the end of the week...” Her voice trails off uncertainly. “You love snow...” 

Emmy wishes they would all leave her alone. 

“Oh, Emmy! Why won’t you speak to us, to me? Please! We only want to help you. What can have happened to you? Please, Emmy!” 

Papa comes in and takes Ruby away. He returns, however, and sits quietly for a long time. 

“A man came to visit you.” 

This causes Emmy to turn around sharply. 

“His name was John Sharpe. He wished to know how you were doing, and to apologize.” 

She is not interested in his apologies, nor his regrets. She wants nothing to do with him ever again. 

“Emmy.” His voice is soft, gentle. “You never regained your voice, did you?” Papa continues, not expecting an answer. “I have a theory. The mysterious loss of your voice occurred at the same point as your miraculous ability to walk. I...I think that you exchanged the one for the other. I think...I--” He stops, breath hitching. Reaches out and takes her hand. “Emmy. I wish to know: was it worth all this?” 

She has no reply for him. That is the question she has been lying there trying to answer. Was it worth the pain, the silence, the humiliation? 

Her eyes fill with tears. God help her-- she still has no regrets. For a time, she could walk. For one brief moment, she danced. It was-- everything, and more. 

It. Was. All. 

After a time, Papa leaves. 

* 

The worst part is after they convince her to go see their doctor, to make sure her legs are healing cleanly. They go in the early morning, but one figure out for a stroll spies them, and the entire city hears the story before dusk: Emerald Hamilton has no feet! She has no feet, and no voice. Emmy imagines the corpulent ladies-- with pearl necklaces and diamond rings digging into their flesh-- braying to one another falsely discrete behind their fans. 

But somehow she cannot bring herself to care. It is not as though she will have any kind of future in any case-- and so let them talk. 

Then Count Baginsky comes to visit her. 

He hesitates in the doorway. She sits in her wheelchair, a book lying forgotten in her blanketed lap. 

“Miss Hamilton,” he says. 

Emmy looks away. 

“May I come in?” He sits across from her. “I wished to see you. Are you feeling well?” 

The silence stretches out like thread on a spindle. 

“I have decided to return to Poland as soon as the roads clear in the spring. My fellow dancers will also return; they have been away from their families for so long, and I cannot deny them. Especially since I have no real reason to remain here in London.” 

Emmy writes a short note and shows him. 

“Why do I tell you? Why should you care?” he says, almost angrily. “I...I do not know why I came here! I am a fool!” He stands up and stalks to the door, but stops with one hand on the door frame. “I suppose I came only to say goodbye. Goodbye, Miss Hamilton. I cannot say truly that I have enjoyed knowing you.” He whirls around, face bleak. “No. That is not true. I have enjoyed knowing you, once. I enjoyed knowing you, once. I liked you, Miss Hamilton, Emmy. I liked you because you did not take the fact that you could speak and use your words and your mind for granted, and that you had dreams, so different from my own. You were so beautiful to me, the fact that you could not walk made you more beautiful, more true in my eyes. Is movement truth, Emmy? Or are thoughts and words truth? I do not know these things; I am only a lesser noble, who tries to dance. Once...” He trails off, shaking his head. 

Emmy wheels herself forward and clutches his arm. 

“You look at me,” he whispers, “and it all I can do to remember that I am angry with you. Miss Hamilton...” 

She slams a fist on her thigh in frustration. Would the man not complete a thought!

“I once considered asking for your hand,” he says, hanging his head and not looking her in the eyes. “I thought that we could complete each other: I am not good with words, with thinking; I know that. And you could not walk, and looked so serious, so sad, except when you thought of dancing. I thought...” He laughs, bitterly. “But like I say, I am not good with thinking, and this proves it. I am returning to my home now, Miss Hamilton, and I came to say goodbye.” 

Cruelly, he shakes off her hand and backs away, out the door. “Goodbye, Miss Hamilton,” he says, and is gone. 

 

* 

The passage of time is slow and savage, the seasons so similar as to be simultaneous to Emmy. The rest of winter is spring is summer is fall and autumn is early winter again. Amber marries, some elderly count who promises to dote on her and die early; Emmy does not attend the wedding, which is held in late spring. Ruby nearly runs away and becomes an actress or an aviator or delves into some other sort of shocking profession, but she meets an engineer named Thomas Heddington; and although he is eager to be married, Ruby, for mysterious reasons she keeps to herself, refuses to entertain the idea until the next year. 

“It would be too much,” she confides to Emmy one day, “for Papa. Both of his daughters married in one year!” 

Emmy does not think that is the real reason, but she does not stir the pot. 

Once a month, a letter comes in the mail from Poland for her. They sit in the bottom of her keepsake box for at least a week before she gathers the courage to read them. They are at first painfully polite, entirely impersonal dregs, but they soon become a little friendlier, a little more confidential: Emmy writes back to the Count according to the tone of each, and the Count seems to pick up upon the quid pro quo. He tells her of his daily life in his estate, which he inherited, badly dilapidated from his father, and which he only recently decided to renovate. 

“It will be the most modern of any of the manors in the east,” he says. “I am sparing no expense at all. There will be heated floors and electric lights and three bathrooms on every floor; there will be a theatre, and a dance studio for the troupe; and I am importing a movie-projector directly from Hollywood, in America.”

In mid-summer, a letter does not come when expected. It turns up two weeks later, and Emmy, in a haste that belies her detachment, rips the letter open immediately. The Count was extremely sorry, she read, but things in Poland had not been going as he had planned. 

“The storm did much damage to the estate,” he writes. “And then a workman fell into the reflecting pond, knocked off the roof by a gust of wind.” He goes to say how the storms had irritated his mother’s allergies, and she had died. “The funeral was very hard for me,” he writes, and the penmanship suffers. Emmy finds herself stirred beyond reckoning. 

* 

And so in late October, Ruby enters Emmy’s room and demands that she accompany Papa and her to the theatre.

“Why?” Emmy writes on a small chalkboard. 

“Because it is time for you to get out, Emmy. You have been in the house for almost a year now.” She tosses her head impatiently. “Besides, I know you love the theatre.”

“No,” she writes. “Everyone will stare.” 

“Oh, Emmy. It doesn’t matter to me! You know how people talk: if it’s not one thing, they’ll find something else. I love you, and Papa, too, and even Thomas. Please. Amber will be there too!” 

“I don’t want to.” 

Ruby huffs and stalks out. Papa comes in a few moments later. Emmy waves the chalkboard a little. 

“I know you don’t,” Papa says, “but you are going to.” 

Emmy slams her fists on the arm rests of her chair as he toes off the locks and wheels her from the room. The carriage is waiting, Ruby and Thomas already there, and Emmy supposes it could be worse: at least she is wearing a nicer dress than usual. She shoots an evil look at Ruby, who picks out her clothes in the mornings. “Did you know about this little adventure this morning?” 

Ruby doesn’t reply, simply takes Thomas’s arm; but she wears an evil smile upon her lips. 

The entrance into the theatre is just as bad as she imagines: people staring, whispering, pointing. Papa continues pushing her inside, and soon she can hide in the relative safety of their box. This does not stop others from pointing and looking at her. 

“Now, see, isn’t this lovely?” Ruby says cheerfully, clutching Thomas’s hand. “And look here, Emmy: we have seen this ballet troupe before!” She hands Emmy the program, and Emmy sees how she has been tricked: it is the Count’s ballet troupe, on an encore-request by the Queen. He had not mentioned the trip in his letters, she remembers, and so perhaps he will not be dancing. Emmy searches restlessly through the program for-- there. There it is: Fyodor Baginsky. She reaches down to unlock the wheels of her chair, but she is too late, because the lights are dimming and the curtains are rising and the orchestra begins to play. 

* 

The invitation comes near the end of the show. Papa receives it. His eyes widen when he reads the name written on the front. “Emmy,” he whispers, leaning over; “it is for you.” 

It is a hastily-written note that invites “Miss Emerald Hamilton” to “come backstage and greet the dancers directly following the show.” Before Emmy can tear up the note, Ruby snatches it up and reads it. “Oh, how delightful for you!” she says quietly. “You simply must go, of course. You have not seen Count Fyodor in ages, as I recall.” 

Emmy spends the rest of the show fuming. 

Too soon, an usher leads her backstage, to a sitting-room done all in blue and gold and white, with mirrors all around, and a tea service laid on one table. “Please wait here, Miss,” the usher says, closing the door behind himself. Emmy pours herself a cup of tea and waits, listening to the friendly ticking of the clock on the mantle, the crackling of the fire in the fireplace. 

The Count falls into the room amid laughter and foreign shouts, breathless and red. He pushes his hair back from his face and sees her. “You!” he says, stiffening. “How did you get in here?” In the silence that follows, the sound of the tumblers in the door are very loud. The Count rattles the handle a few times before stalking over to a chair and throwing himself into it. Emmy sips her tea. He shoots her a look, which she returns. “Well?” 

“I received an invitation,” she writes on her chalkboard. 

“Hm.” He sloshes a cup of tea and gulps it gratefully. “Well, how have you been?”

“The same, since my last letter,” she writes. “And you?” 

“I did not want to come back,” the Count says. “I was not planning on it, that was why I never told you. In case you were wondering why I never told you I was returning to London in my letters. My dancers showed me a request from your Queen, which I am almost sure now was a fake.” He sighs. “So I came here, I dance. Backstage, my dancers lock us into a room.” A gleam enters his eye. “Is your sister, Ruby, in on this too?” 

“I do not know.” 

He snorts. “I would expect it of her. Do you know, she has written me at least five times, begging me to return and make amends with you? What have you been doing, pining away into nothing without me?” 

Insulted, Emmy jerks her face away. 

“Oh. I am sorry. I do not mean that. I am certain you have been doing just fine here, yes?” 

“If you are going to be rude,” she writes, “just be silent.” 

“Of course,” he says, and quiets. 

The ticking of the clock is very loud, augmented by the sound of sudden rain on the windows. Emmy finishes her tea and replaces the cup on the tray before sitting with her hands folded; the Count is in constant motion, tapping a foot, slurping his tea, eventually getting up and pacing before the fireplace. 

“Why did you write me letters?” Emmy writes, but does not show him. She waits. 

“All right, what is it you are thinking?” the Count bursts out, throwing up his hands. “Tell me. I know you are thinking something.” He reads the chalkboard she shows him. He looks away. “I...do not know. I had said my farewells to you. And then your sister Ruby wrote me, and said that she was worried about you, that you lay in bed all day, and how sad you were, all the time... And I thought of the first time I had met you, at that awful party. You were so serious, and when I spoke to you, you brightened, like the sun after rain. And...” 

And very suddenly, sharply, Emmy hates him, she hates him with all her being. Because he can walk, yes, but also because he has seen her vulnerable, because he knows the truth about what she has done, because he-- he doesn’t know her! He doesn’t, at all! How can he? How can he know anything about who she is? He represents everything wrong with her life, represents everything that she will never have, and she hates him for it. Most of all, she hates him because he might love her; but who does he love? some girl, driven lovesick over her desire to dance, to walk? How can he, when she does not even know who she is anymore?

“Yes?” he says, and Emmy realizes she has been mouthing “I hate you,” over and over. “What is it?” 

“I must leave,” she writes. 

“The door is locked,” he reminds her, irritatingly. 

“Go out the window and around to unlock it.” 

“It is raining. I will get wet.” 

Emmy closes her eyes and counts to ten. When she opens her eyes, the Count is frowning at her. She arches an eyebrow. 

“I was...I just--” He shrugs. “I do not know how to make you happy again. I wonder what it will take.” 

She warms under his gaze, wishing he would stop looking at her, and turns her attention to writing. “Nothing. I am happy.” 

“You lie!” he says, with some glee. “You are sad. I have not seen you for most of the year, and I can tell. Please. How can I make you smile?” He looks to earnest, Emmy has to turn away to keep her composure. “That is cheating, Miss Hamilton.” 

Her mouth twists. “Please, Count. Leave me alone.” 

The Count seems to shut down, now, and he tucks himself into a corner of the sofa and stares at the opposite wall. Emmy almost feels sorry, and then remembers that is what she wants, not to talk, not to realize-- 

Not to realize that she has missed speaking with this man, face to face. No matter that they have spoken to each other only a very few times, that a few letters cannot cover an entire lifetime of activity and idiosyncrasy, that Emmy is-- she is-- 

She swallows, lets out a breath. “I’m sorry,” she writes, touches him lightly on the arm. “I am”-- and this is so hard to write-- “not recovered yet. From everything.” 

“Thank you,” he says. “I understand.” 

Rage, frustration: how can he understand? How can he know what she feels? 

“I understand that you are angry and that you do not understand. You do not understand many things, but most of all you do not understand why you find yourself in love with someone else. I know this because I also am in love with someone.” 

No, Emmy thinks. It isn’t true. 

“And maybe I am being foolish, maybe I am making a mistake, but I am a kind person, Miss Hamilton; I look at you and I feel sad, because you are unhappy. I do not know what I may do to make you happy, and so I can only offer a few pathetic attempts.” He reaches into one pocket, smiles. “I do not have it. Miss Hamilton, Emmy, I have been carrying an engagement ring in my pocket since my mother gave it to me, off her own finger before she passed on. I have met many women since then, but none whom I imagined marrying. Since I find that you have become very dear to me, will it make you happy to marry me? I only wish to please you.” 

Emmy is shaking her head. 

“No,” he says, and takes her hand. “You think that I only ask out of pity. What is love but the desire to soothe all wounds?” 

“You can’t marry me,” she writes. 

“Why not?” 

“I am nothing but a cripple.”

His face darkens. “You are not a cripple. You are wounded, yes. May I be arrogant enough to believe, to hope I might heal you?” 

No, she thinks, tears springing unbidden to her eyes in the face of his honesty, of his gentle desire to set her right. Not to change her, but to help her understand-- Understand what? That she is beautiful, that she is wanted, that she never needed to try to be anything other than herself? No, no, no--

“If you truly wish it, I will go away and never ask anything of you again.”

Oh, oh, no. What should she do? If she agrees, he will be stuck with her, and she with him, although that is not any hardship. Why would he want to be saddled with a damaged, a broken-- Why-- How can he want this? Oh, but his goodness is too much for her, how can she say yes, how can she deny him? 

“I will ask you once more, and then I will disappear. Do not think of how my heart is breaking.”

Oh, *why* is he being so cruel?

“Emmy: will you not marry me?” 

World stop, colours drifting, not a moment, not a sound. Two simple words, each one devastating. Yes. Or. No. She digs her fingernails into the arm rests of her chair, needing that external stimulus. If she says yes, what if he regrets it? What if--

She waves a hand, begging for just a moment. What if he decides that she is merely a burden to him? Oh, what force she will have to endure, to become what he expects her to be. What if cannot? What if he overestimates her, what she can be? And he *does*. He *does.* She knows that. And...does he? 

“What if I cannot be healed?” she writes. 

“Then I will have to convince you that even, as you say, broken, you are worth something. You are worth something to me, always.” He waits, patiently. 

And Emmy-- Emmy nods her head. She nods her head, and the Count sweeps her up, presses her to his chest. 

“My love,” he whispers; “my love.” She curls her fingers into his jacket. He kisses her on the forehead. “My love.” Emmy cries into his shoulder; and when she is drained, he sets her down once more and finds that the door has been unlocked, and they venture out together to face the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Posthumous" by Henry A. Beers:
> 
> "Yet what is left  
> To us bereft,  
> Save these remains,  
> Which now the moth  
> Will fret, or swifter fire consume?"


End file.
